October 20, 2003
Time Frame
Mike puts a candle inside of our pumpkin, meticulously carved, so that his leer casts a shadow against the far wall. The two of us lay down in bed, presumably to drift off to sleep, only to talk for two hours with the shortest of breaths and kisses stolen in between words.
There is nothing more simple and comfortable to me than that. There is nothing closer to happiness, otherwise captured in fleeting moments, like the leaves blown up into the street, flushed yet with the life from their previous perch; like a laugh, framed in a passenger side mirror, a mouth full of teeth and tongue and poetry.
Little moments turn into bigger moments until there is a legitimate frame of time, something I can hold, slip a picture inside, and watch it age.
We talked about traveling and kids and being old together. I don't think about white wedding dresses. I think about hiking boots, for when we're in Germany.
astera at 11:28 a.m.